If Our Roles Were Reversed
by lemoncelloismyname
Summary: The War of Wrath has a very different outcome, and it is Eönwë who must beg for mercy.


Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, I'm just playing with them.

.&.

Burning hands clamp painfully upon his shoulder, forcing him into a submissive kneeling position in the ashen dirt. A thick chain, hewn tightly around his neck, bites into his soft flesh, causing his body to shiver involuntarily. He bites his lip, and swallows the pained hiss that threatens to slip from his mouth, blinking as the dust settles around him. From the frighteningly eerie stillness a chill wind wips up, causing his ruffled hair to dance lifelessly about his face.

Eönwë kneels in the dirt, head bowed, as if in some twisted position of reverence. His shoulders are tensed, stiff, hands clenched into fists at his sides, matted hair hanging forward, eyes furiously boring into the scattered dirt at his knees. Around him, the jeering of the orcs echos back and forth, mocking him, taunting him, calling for his death.

He tries to lift his head, but the moment he does so a hand grasps the back of his skull and aggressively shoves it down again, so that he catches naught but a glimpse of his surroundings. The orcs cheer, drawing pleasure from his discomfort, but it is nothing but a background drone to him.

The grief inside him ebs and flows like the tides of the sea. So many have died fighting under him, _for_ him, King Arafinwë among them, struck down while defending Eönwë's own life, his sacrifice made null and meaningless in their defeat.

 _Morgoth will pay for every last one,_ he promises, anger raging inside him like a storm upon the Helcaraxë. (Because without anger, what is he but a lost little Maia alone in the dark?)

The battle was a complete annihilation. Unfathomable darkness had spewed relentlessly from Angband; orcs and trolls and balrogs and a monstrous dragon, big enough to blot out the sun. Their forces were slaughtered, burned and stabbed and decapitated, friends all of them, all dead and gone. In the end he had no choice but to surrender, in a last, despairing attempt to save as many lives as possible, even though captivity in Angband is not much of an option.

He can still hear the muted din of the fighting, the screams of his soldiers and the victorious cries of his enemies. Still feel the syrupy warmth of unholy black blood coating his hands and the plunging of his blade into body after body. Still see Arafinwë's eyes widening in a frightened surprise, as a rugged sword tears through his abdomen.

He is drawn out of his trance when new voice speaks, silken and delicate, yet with a malicious hissing undertone, like fine, coarse sand trickling steadily through an hourglass, soft but painfully deliberate. The jeering of the orcs draws to an abrupt halt, and Eönwë feels the cold hand of fear creep inside him and clench painfully around his stomach, and he freezes.

"You have done well, in capturing this piece of filth," murmurs the voice. "Certainly my master will be pleased with his presence."

Neck aching, Eönwë yet again attempts to lift his chin to face his captor, only to have it forced to his chest once more, a wrathful growl echoing from the creature positioned behind him.

"Oh, let him up," snaps the voice, with an edge of irritation. The anger, however, shifts to glee as it adds, "I want to see the _terror_ in his eyes."

The pressure on the back of his skull vanishes, and Eönwë greatfully lifts his head, stretching his neck to the side and rolling his shoulders slightly.

He looks up.

Sauron Gorthaur, the Deciever, the Abhorred One, the Lieutenant of Angband and Morgoth is standing above him, clad in a dark cloak and dull, black armour. His fiery hair curls down his back, longer than Eönwë remembers, and his skin is paler too, his features sharper and more pronounced. At the sight of him, so different yet still the same, something inside Eönwë shatters. It is the first time he has laid eyes upon him since his betrayal, and in Eönwë's mind it is almost as if Mairon and Sauron are two different beings, one an ominous, dark shadow upon Eä while the other his lost friend.

It is harrowing, to say the least, having the realisation that they are one and the same truly thrust upon him like this, a his childish denial falls to the ground in pitiful shards around him.

 _Mairon is gone,_ he tells himself forcefully. _This is but a mere, deceitful, foul servant of Morgoth in front of you, one who is simply wearing his face._

Above him, a thin, victorious smirk stretched across Sauron's face. "So glad that you could finally join us, _Herald_ ," he goads. "My master and I were beginning to think that you had abandoned the people of Middle Earth to their death." His sly smile grows as he speaks, face alight with a glitering mirth. "It's a pity though," he continues, gesturing thoughtlessly to the carnage surrounding him, "all this needless waste of life, and your fault too! Now, if the Valar would only submit to my Lord Melkor, then it would not have to be like this."

In response to this, Eönwë sends a large glob of spit hurdling in the direction of the Lieutenant of Angband, falling just short of his dusty iron boots.

He barely has time to smile triumphantly before Sauron's face appears inches from his own, suddenly furious. "Do that again," he snarls, an intense, abrupt wrath scorching his tone, "and I'll have your tongue ripped out."

Eönwë simply glares back, silent.

The anger slips away from the face of Morgoth's Lieutenant almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the statue-like mask of indifference in its place. "You should have brought more Maia," he muses, almost absently, his slow breaths attacking the skin of Eönwë's face. "You underestimated us, but your masters, they will not make the same mistake again." He straitens up again and raises his voice, turning his back upon the kneeling prisoner and facing the hoards of ravenous orcs behind him, and his tone once again assumes the commanding timbre of a battle hardened warrior. "You may have heard now that due to an unfortunate mishap that _King_ " - he spits the title out with a mocking laugh - "Arafinwë of the Noldor is dead, and those involved with this accident have been... suitably punished. This, my master will decidedly _not_ be pleased about. However, we must reap the best out this bad situation, and as such I have decided that his body will make an opportune figerhead for our army, perhaps even a fine decoration for the walls of Angband."

A resulting cry of support ripples through the crowd of mutated, deformed creatures like the surface of a puddle of water in a rainstorm. Sauron smiles widely, triumphantly, and Eönwë feels a wave of revulsion tear through his grief; the fallen Maia is quite clearly enjoying himself.

Sauron's proud smirk remains embedded in his face as he continues, his smooth, gloating tone making the Herald feel faintly sick. "I want the body of that elven scum impaled on a pike at the forefront of our columns with minimal damage, after all we need him to still be recognisable. Also, I will reward whoever can bring me his sword. And once that has been taken care of I wish for you to search for any more survivors. We will bring a hoard of fresh slaves back to my master." A pause. "You may do what you like with the other corpses, providing it does not hinder our departure."

Another deafening cheer goes up amongst the black army, and Eönwë looks down again, gnawing at the alreay torn flesh of his lip until the sharp, metallic taste of blood trickles into his dry mouth. So much death, he thinks numbly, but then he steels himself again, repeating his promise like a mantra in his head, over and over again.

 _MorgothwillpayMorgothwillpayMorgothwillpay._

He listens as the mutated creatures haistily scramble away, leaving only the silence of the battlefield, and the sound of Sauron's rhythmic footfalls as he paces back and forth in front of his captive. Eventually the pacing stops, leaving only the deafening blanket of silence, so different to the drone of relentless slaughter that has been echoing in his head for so long.

"Well?" says the Lieutenant of Angband eventually, his gloating, sing-song tone dripping with glee, "aren't you going to say something? A snarky comment perhaps, or even a plea for me to relent and join your failing power?"

Cautiously, Eönwë lifts his chin, and stares pleadingly into the eyes of the fallen Maia above him. They, at least, are still the same glowing orange that he remembers, although it is as if the burning spark of life and strength and determination has died, leaving only cold, blank stone in its place. "Mairon," he hears himself say (beg, really). "Please."

If Morgoth's Lieutenant has any reaction to Eönwë's use of his old name, then his burning eyes do not show it. "The only mercy I can offer you is death, _Herald_ ," he half-snarls. "And I am not feeling particularly merciful at this moment in time. No, you will make an excellent prize for my master, perhaps even enough that he might forget this whole fiasco with that wretched Arafinwë."

Eönwë's gaze slides down to the ground again, and he feels his own shoulders hunch forward pathetically. "Please, Mairon..." he says again, tailing off, refusing to let himself break.

Above him, Sauron shifts, tilting his head to the side and silently observing the kneeling Maia before him, and after a long moment the arrogant sneer splitting his face softens to a small frown. "If our roles were reversed," he hears the Lieutenant murmur, almost contemplatively, "if I was the one kneeling at your feet, what would you do?"

Eönwë bites his lip yet again, and turns the questions over in his mind. He can already taste the thick, metallic flavour of the scarlet liquid seeping into his mouth, but his teeth still continue their vicious attack on his own flesh as he thinks and thinks and thinks. Eventually he opens his mouth, his voice rough with defeat, and he responds, "I would bring you back to Valinor, to face judgement before my Lord Manwë and his brethren, for it would not be my place to offer you mercy."

Sauron nods, lifting his fiery gaze to stare at a point in the distance. "I thought that might be the case," he states, and Eönwë somehow gets the distinct impression that the Lieutenant of Angband is not talking to him.

Suddenly, he is dragged aggressively to his feet, another heavy chain clamped roughly around his wrists. The searing burning whip of a balrog drives him stumbling forward, and, amidst the taunts and jeers of the black army of Middle Earth, they begin their long trek back to the final stronghold of Morgoth.

.&.

The throne room of Angband is dimly lit at best; not even the light of the Silmarils is able to pierce through the thick and heavy darkness shrouding the long hall like a blanket. And two of the Silmarils are present too, barely giving off any glow from their position the the crown of the being who has brought Middle Earth to its knees.

Eönwë is thrown roughly to the cold floor, his head banging off the stone tiles as he is forced into a kneeling position. He tries to clamber unsteadily to his feet, but the sharp prod of a pointed spear drives him to the ground again, and a cool, high, clear voice snarls, "you will kneel in the presence of Lord Melkor, King of Middle-Earth." Eönwë spits in response, and the sharp, harsh crack of the whip against his back shatters the dusty silence resting in the throne room. He grits his teeth, and defiantly raises his head to face the monstrosity before him.

Morgoth resides in a massive, looming throne that presides over the room like a cloud of darkness, wearing the form of a Dark Lord, great and terrible. His scarred face is split by an ugly snarl, and his eyes, deep and cobalt, are alight with an inferno of fury. And when he speaks, his voice, once deceptively pure and melodic, is low and raspy, yet powerfully terrifying all the same, and it sends chills down Eönwë's spine, although he does his best to fight them.

"You have done well, Mairon," says the Dark Lord slowly, "in bringing this piece of filth to my feet. Now all that remains is for us to decide what to do with him." He leans forward in his throne and sneers, adding, "it would be so much fun to make him _squeal_. What do you think?"

The aforementioned creature stands at the foot of his master's great throne, as still as a statue, and with an expressionless mask stitched on his face, regarding Eönwë with a weary distain. There is an ugly bruise colouring his face, just below his left eye, and it looks as if the skin has split, creating a jagged scar across his cheekbone. Eönwë is almost certain it was not there earlier, and wonders where it came from. "In my opinion, Master," the Lieutenant begins, shoulders back, tone painfully neutral, "the prisoner would be best served as a hostage to lure your enemies out of their cowardly hiding place in Aman." He tilts his head, and adds thoughtfully, "Manwë may act more rashly if he knows we have his precious Herald in our dungeons."

Instead of continuing to stare resiliently at Morgoth, Eönwë lifts his eyes from his horrific features to fix his gaze upon the pitifully glowing Silmarils. This change does not bring him much hope; the once ethereal jewels look just as disheartened as he feels.

"It would be a shame, though," Morgoth continues, "to demote such a being of power to a mere hostage." His menacing growl has taken on the deceiving qualities of a disturbingly silken hiss, and it reverberates painfilly through Eönwë like the beat of a war-drum, cutting through his flesh like ice to the bone. "With a bit of work, he may even reach the power of Ungoliant."

"Whatever you wish, my Lord," Sauron responds stiffly.

Eönwë, however, can feel a hot rage bubbling within him, and suddenly it explodes outwards, and he snarls, "I will never, never, *never*, serve you, willing or otherwise." The crack of the whip resonates loudly again, only this time he gives a sharp hiss, barely audible, but existing nonetheless.

Morgoth smiles. "Take him down to the dungeons," he commands, "and have him thrown in the darkest cell there is. Make sure he recieves plenty of company too, as he could get rather lonely while I make my decision, and ensure that he is heavily guarded." His smile widens, a hideously twisting disfigurement upon his scarred face, and he adds mockingly, "I want him broken as soon as possible."

He glares up at Morgoth as he is hauled away, staring at him with a menacing hatred. The Dark Lord only laughs at his efforts, the harsh sound grating on his ears like the agony of broken bones grating against each other. Below him, the colour of Sauron's fiery orange eyes contrast heavily against the deep splatter of purple bruises across his face, as he watches on, still, silent, surviving.

.&.

When they firt throw him into the darkness of the dungeons of Angband, his anger rages like the fires in the forges of Aulë, burns with the might of Tulkas and the wrath of Oromë. "Do not even try to escape," Sauron sneers at him him. "This cell has held creatures far more powerful than you, Herald." But Eönwë doesn't listen, and he beats his fists against the walls, and shouts and screams and throws himself at the iron-wrought door unil his throat is raw and his voice is rough and his body aches all over, and when that heeds nothing he results to pacing, up and down and up and down and up and down, shouting insults and curses at the top of his lungs.

...And when that heeds nothing, he decides that it is best to conserve his strength, and thus he slumps reluctantly against the wall and resigns himself to waiting.

.&.

Down here, the air stinks of rot and mould, but it is mostly the smell of pain that invades Eönwë's senses, an infectious, relentlessly foul oder with the metallic tang of blood. It is fearsomely dark also, and he does not know he has been there; for there is no sun from which to clock the time. It could have been days since Morgoth proclaimed his fate, for all he knows, weeks even, and still he has not received an ounce of the torment that Morgoth had promised. He does not no how to feel about this either; the loneliness may drive him to insanity long before any torture ever could.

He sincerely hopes that Sauron is wrong, that Manwë will not lead the Valar into a trap, but he has learned the hard way now that the might of Morgoth is far greater than any could have imagined. (He also hopes that he too will not become an unwilling addition to this dark and furious power.) Worry festers in his stomach, gnawing at him from the inside out, as his fingers tap restlessly against the chilled stone floor.

He does not look up when the cell door finally opens, when the unyielding darkness falls to the warm glow of a torch, choosing to stay huddled in the corner of the tiny room, head resting against the freezing wall, one leg pulled up loosely against his chest. A formless shadow appears in the orange light of the open door, and remains there for a while, as if observing him. Eönwë quietly returns its masked stare, unmoving, waiting for his visitor to announce itself.

"Eönwë," says a voice, calmly, and without the false, extravagant gloating that dripped from it earlier, and in reaponse he finally raises his head. Sauron stands in the doorway, his bruised face and battered frame hidden in the safety of a thick and heavy cloak. Only his eyes are visible, as bright and fiery as always, their glow clearly visible from underneath the hood as he lurks on the edge of the cell, silent and watchful.

Eönwë eyes his visitor wearily for a long while, contemplating his appearance. "Have you come to interrogate me, _Sauron_?" he sneers finally. He is exhausted, and he knows that, despite the meager mask of arrogance he has attempted to stich on his face, Sauron can see right through him. Even he can hear the pathetic vibrato to his voice, already laced with the bitter tang of defeat.

What he does not expect, however, is to be suddenly bombarded by the rich, stiff material of a worn cloak as it is catapulted across the cell at him.

"Put that on and come with me," snaps the Lieutenant of Angband forcefully. "And make it quick."

Eönwë's eyes dart from the cloak to his captor, and back to the cloak again. Hesitantly, he begins to untangle it from the messy ball in which it landed on his lap, and as his uncertainty slowly slips away he finds himself asking, "Where are you taking me?"

"Out," retorts Sauron simply, with his usual sharp abrasiveness, but Eönwë is starting to see cracks in his perfect demeanor, in the way he taps his foot impatiently and periodically checks behind him, and in how his eyes glance furtively about as he impatiently waits for the obedience of his prisoner.

Eönwë does not know what to make of this.

As if sensing his indecision, the Sorcerer adds frostily, "Didn't I tell you to hurry up!?"

Eönwë nods, hastily clamouring to his knees and swinging the stiff material of the cloak about his shoulders. He tugs the cowl up, taking comfort from the thick, musky smell and the shadows that cover his face. He claws a hand against the scarred wall of the cell and drags himself to his feet. The moment he has steadied himself Sauron's hand clamps around his arm with the unbridled strength of a steel chain, and pulls him hurriedly across the floor.

"Keep your head down and say nothing to anyone," hisses the Lieutenant as they exit the prison, and Eönwë gives another short, sharp nod in acknowledgement, allowing the fallen Maia to drag him along without resistance.

They pass through corridor after corridor, turn after turn, so much that Eönwë quickly looses track of where they have been. They are met with next to no obstruction, and those that they do encounter are sent quickly on their way by a threatening glower from their Lieutenant. Eönwë follows obediently behind him, a strange suspicion beginning to creep its way into the forefront of his mind.

The rest of Angband is not much more pleasant than the dungeons, he notes as they pass; it is haunted by the same pungent scent of torture and death, and the darkness is just as relentless too, being beaten back by amere handful of torches alight upon the walls. Orcs, goblins and the occasional balrog all traipse past, and the air is alive with the clashing of steel, and the jeering of soldiers, and the deep, distant, ominous drone of the mountain.

There are slaves too, walking corpses of skin and bone, far too many to count, with with dead, empty eyes and sunken faces like skulls, clothed in pitiful rags and covered in dirt and soot. Their flesh is marred with disgusting, deforming injuries, tearing through their skin and seeping a sickly yellow puss. Some limp wearily through the halls, while others are slumped upon the ground, ignored, their eyes clenched shut, sobbing or wailing or muttering hysterically to themselves. The ones that are walking drag their feet heavily, their shoulders stooped as if they are carrying boulders upon their backs. Every step they take seems almost painful, dripping with an untold agony, and it is almost plausible that each foot that falls sluggishly upon the stone shall be their last.

Eönwë forces himself to watch them as they pass, to observe their bent necks and their bare and bloodied feet, before biting his lip and looking away, and he swears again to himself that somehow he will make Morgoth pay.

Onwards and onwards, until his creeping suspicions are confirmed when suddenly there is naught but open air, and endless, barren plains stretching as far as they eye can see. The sky is as lifeless as the rock below it, the light of the stars barred by the thick, dark clouds that Angband wears like a coat, yet Eönwë still takes a moment to pause and gaze up at its everlasting deepness, basking in the feeling of the cool night air upon his face, at least until the iron grip of Sauron drags him forward.

The two slip silently into the darkness, Sauron moving with his usual eerie grace while Eönwë scrambles along behind him, both camouflaged from the view of the sentinels by the dark material of their cloaks. The eart here is perilously rough and rocky, but Sauron seems to know where he is going, and so Eönwë watches him like a hawk, tracking every foot placement and replicating them himself.

A little while later, when the black fortress itself is hidden from view by a looming rocky outcrop, Sauron draws to a halt and turns to him expectantly. Over the Lieutenant's shoulder, Eönwë can spot the beginnings of a faint, beaten path, curling and creeping into the shadow of the mountains.

Sauron glances around covertly, and then the unlit torch he carries suddenly bursts into flame, casting a warm, writhing glow across the ashen rock. "I cannot come any further, or my master my notice may absense" he explains lowly, "but that path will lead you through the mountains and back into Beleriand."

"Why are you helping me?" Eönwë questions, still mildly baffled at the sudden turn of events.

Sauron shrugs. "I'm keeping my options open," he responds noncommittally, but with a biting edge of bitter sarcasm. Eönwë merely stares at him, eyebrows raised, saying nothing. And then his anger returns again, gushing out like a tidal wave, and the Sorcerer adds, snarling, "Do I have to spell it out for you? Run! Or would you rather I brought you back to that measly cell and ripped your skin away from your flesh!?"

The eyes of Morgoth's Lieutenant are ablaze with an imploring, impatient fury, but still Eönwë hesitates.

"Mairon," he says eventually, softly, and suddenly Sauron's eyes are wide with shock, "come with me." He pauses for a moment, and then adds, "You showed me mercy, in helping me escape, and now it is only right that I do the same."

Sauron stares at him for a long time, silent, but then his eyes harden and his face forms into a snarl. "And why would I want to do that, Herald?" he sneers. "I am loyal to my lord Melkor, and I have no reason to betray him."

Eönwë frowns, opening his mouth to protest, but a sharp glare from the Lieutenant of Angband stops him.

Sauron watches him wearily for a moment longer, the bruises decorating his face more prominent than ever in the flickering light of the torch that he carries. "There have been reports of those blessed eagles of yours flapping about the place," he says flatly, "if you can get far away enough from here you should be able to find one. Move quickly and stick close to the shadow of the mountains, and you will avoid being seen by the sentinels guarding the fortress. And for Eru's sake, don't get caught, because then we're both dead, got it?"

"Mairon.." he repeats softly, reaching for the other Maia, but Sauron shoves him away, pushing him further down the path and towards the shelter of the mountains.

"Go!" he snarls, glowering fiercely at him, and after a brief hesitation Eönwë obeys, darting down the beaten path towards his freedom.

"Thank you," he whispers gently, before he slips away. "I promise I'll make it up to you, somehow."

He does not look back, but if he did, he might have seen Sauron's gaze lingering on his retreating form, and he might have also noticed the whispers of regret beginning to creep into his fiery eyes as the lone Maia watches his old friend vanish into the shadows of Thangorodrim.

As it happens however, he does not, and after another moment Sauron extinguishes his torch, turning and sweeping back into the darkness of Angband, his features once again set into a mask of stony emptiness.

-end-

Arafinwë = Finarfin, but that's not really important.

AN: I had a lot of fun writing this! I know Sauron might seem a bit OOC, but I love fics that explore the idea of him not being wholly evil (at least not during the War of Wrath anyway), and I wanted to attempt one of my own. It is called fanfiction, after all!


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